


The Things We Do

by akelios



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Bloodplay, Kinkmeme, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Woundplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akelios/pseuds/akelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a work of art to Marcone, maybe even an act of worship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Do

I took quick, shallow breaths, trying not to let my chest rise high enough to brush the dull edge of the blade being held inches above my skin. Marcone smiled down at me, knees to either side of my thighs, pressing my legs together.

“Relax Harry. You're going to hyperventilate before we get anywhere.”

“You relax. I'm fine.” Marcone 'mmm'd and then brought the blade down, pressing it's cool metal edge right below my sternum. I hissed and held my breath. He pressed up and I felt the tip begin to dent the soft flesh there, just a little. Not enough to bleed, but I could feel the potential there, the sharp promise of more. My body shivered, muscles tweaking and I took a deep breath, feeling Marcone move the blade with the stretch of my muscles so that it never pressed any harder.

“Ready?”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly constricted and nodded, unable to speak.

He lifted the knife from my stomach and held it up so that the lights shimmered against it, back and forth as he twisted it, eyes on my clean flesh, considering. I knew he'd made up his mind when he stopped flicking the knife back and forth and turned it, blade down, his eyes almost entirely pupil with only a thin line of green left around those pools of black.

My breathing was even now, slow and steady.

The touch started at my collarbone, light, nothing more than a tickling scratch. He traced the up-sweep of the bone, still light, teasing himself. It wasn't hard enough to leave marks. Not yet. This was... defining the edges of the canvas. I knew that Marcone would see the invisible lines he was leaving behind, pale flesh denting behind the blade and then flushing again. He drew the blade down from one shoulder, along my side, down to the slight roundness of my hip. Then across my belly, just there, and back up the other side. A big project tonight.

I sighed as he finished his framing and let my eyes close as I relaxed into the mattress.

That's when he really started. I couldn't see it, but I didn't need to. I knew what was happening. Marcone kept his knives sharp, but this one, this one he honed obsessively. It was razor fine, so sharp that you didn't feel it cut you at first.

But Marcone wouldn't cut, not yet. His control was absolute. The major lines came in in quick sweeps, just enough to raise red scrapes in my skin, the background work for the piece. It took time, so much time. For John it had to be perfect. There was a soothing rhythm to it even as my skin tightened, my cock slowly taking an interest, rising as the movements continued, covering me from shoulders to hips.

When he was ready, when he had me covered in those beautiful abstract lines that would fade more swiftly than either of us wanted Marcone slipped down further, knees to either side of my own. I sighed as I felt the tip of his knife press just below my rib cage once more.

This time- this time he pressed in, down just a little and then the length of the knife was sliding through my skin. I could picture it; a fine, thin line appearing seemingly from nowhere, the gleam of the blade unmarred it moved so quickly through flesh and then the wound opened behind it almost as though the knife had nothing to do with it. As if it were natural.

A long, thin mouth peeling back and revealing the brilliant crimson of my blood.

The blood welled up. It wasn't deep enough to pour out, but it gathered in the seam of the wound and formed a delicate trickle, running down following the path of the cut, pooling at the dip of my belly button. Marcone's breath hissed out, sudden and loud in the absolute quiet of the room and then his tongue was there, curling into the small pool, lapping at it.

I could feel him against me, our lengths rubbing and then parting with every breath, with every jerky, increasingly desperate movement. My hands came up and I took hold of his head, fingers tanging in his hair naturally as I pulled, guiding his mouth to the wound, to where he really wanted to be. It was a fight to keep my eyes closed, to savor the sensation of his tongue probing the sensitive edges and then gliding into the cut itself, teeth closing around it, pinching it shut and then biting, drawing fresh blood from it.

He sighed against my stomach and shuddered, then lifted his face from my flesh. I could feel the effort it took for him to leave the lure of my fresh wound, but he did it. One hand was placed against my stomach and he pressed, rubbed, smearing the blood and I gasped as the movement tugged at the edges of the cut. There might have been a 'shhh' from him, and then the hand was gone again.

I finally opened my eyes, to watch.

Marcone slid up until he was sitting on my hips, my erection slick and throbbing behind him, smearing precome as he moved. He took his own erection in hand and I saw that he was using the bloody palm, wrapping it around his length and jerking, quickly, hard and then he was coming, hot splatters across my chest, my stomach, over his art.

He slumped, eyes half-lidded and I hissed, grabbing his hips and rolling against him, hard and fast. It'd been an hour of this, of sensation and promise. The pain my movements caused me were a sharp note in the midst of it all. I didn't take long and then I was coming, covering Marcone's back. I groaned and let him go. Marcone grabbed me as he rolled, pulling us together, tight. The pressure against my stomach made me hiss, but his arms tightened.

“Just a minute Harry.”

“Okay.”


End file.
